


Still There

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: Ballads of a Witcher and a Bard [4]
Category: The Amazing Devil (Band), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Apologies, Brooding, Brooding Jaskier, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fix-It, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier is livid, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Regrets, monster fighting, rating is for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: “Mistakes,” he said with effort, “are also important to me. I don’t cross them out of my life, or memory. And I never blame others for them.”—Geralt of Rivia, Blood of ElvesWhere Geralt apologises and Jaskier is not yet convinced he should forgive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballads of a Witcher and a Bard [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710100
Comments: 99
Kudos: 260
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In my fics I take the Witcher characters from the show, the books and the games, and put them in a blender. (Picking the characteristics I like and using those.) So Geralt is emotionally a bit more intelligent and Jaskier... is Jaskier mostly from the show (cause I love him). Ah, well...you'll see.  
> The fic is not supposed to follow the canon, and it will have elements taken from all of the above media.
> 
> Title from the song "Welly Boots" by The Amazing Devil  
> "And when you scream that it's not fair  
> It's like I've gone off to the coast  
> Left you behind just standing there  
> Pretending not to see your ghost  
> If only you could hear my voice  
> But you are screaming far too loud to hear me, swear  
> Just because I left doesn't mean that I'm not still there"
> 
> Special thanks to [brodeurbunny30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodeurbunny30) and [LovelyRita1967](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyRita1967) for beta work! This fic wouldn't be the same without you <3

Jaskier was leaning against a tree on a grassy hill, strumming on his lute, humming and singing foul words about friends who were capable of discarding people on a whim. 

“Is that about me?” A familiar low voice asked, causing the blood to boil in Jaskier’s veins. 

Months had passed since their parting in the mountains, but Jaskier could still remember all too clearly the words Geralt had spat at him that day. Without lifting his gaze, he stood and marched up the hill, away from the man who had expressed very succinctly how little he thought of him. 

“Jaskier, wait!” Geralt shot his hand out to grab Jaskier’s arm and turn him around.

“What is it that you want from me?” Jaskier asked, keeping his voice calm but not devoid of bitterness. As he was standing higher on the hill, lifting his chin allowed him to look down at Geralt with more scorn than he normally could.

“I came to…” Geralt swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, as if words were stuck in his throat. Jaskier almost turned away to just walk down the hill and leave his former friend behind before Geralt spoke again.  “I came to apologize.” He looked as if his words were supposed to change something right away, but Jaskier just kept giving him the same cold glare.  “I followed you from town to town, each time missing you by a week, then a day, until I finally found you.” Geralt’s voice was soft, his eyes pleading, but Jaskier wasn’t fooled. He wore his black leather armour, suggesting he hadn’t stopped at an inn to leave his belongings, but had come looking for him straight from the road. 

“Congratulations. Mission accomplished. You may go now,” Jaskier answered in a flat tone, not befitting a poet. 

“Jaskier…” Anguish broke through the single word on Geralt’s lips. He wiped his hands on his breeches as if they were sweating... as if he were nervous. 

“You can’t woo me with your pretend regret. I don’t care anymore, Geralt. I regret caring in the first place,” he lied through clenched teeth, his calm resolve on the verge of collapse. He would rather have died a broken-hearted man than never have cared for Geralt at all. 

“Why are you saying this?” Geralt’s hand dropped from Jaskier’s arm. “You’re still angry… I deserve that, but-”

“Only you would think that you can spit foul words into a friend’s face and then expect to be forgiven without a decent apology. Only you wouldn’t know  _ why _ I’m still angry at you after all these months. You know, for quite a smart guy, you can be incredibly thick.” Jaskier shook his head, scoffing. “Words can wound more than your swords.”

“I apologised. What else do you want?” Geralt was genuinely asking, the prick. He had the nerve to look clueless and confused before his brows lifted in a pitiful impersonation of a puppy waiting to be kicked. He had to be kicked away; Jaskier’s heart had suffered enough for a lifetime, he didn’t need to forgive Geralt just to be discarded at the nearest opportunity. 

“I want to know how sorry you really are.”  Jaskier swung the lute gently on the belt across his chest so that it rested along his lower back. He put both hands on his hips, fairly certain that his next words would be what would drive Geralt away. “So, ah… kneeling would help.”

Without hesitation, Geralt fell to his knees, shocking Jaskier to his core. Once he took in the sight before him however, heat pooled in his abdomen, bringing erotic images with it. Even angry, Jaskier couldn’t help but admire rough beauty when it was before him. Geralt looked up, his mesmerising yellow gaze full of remorse.

“I will do anything, Jaskier.  _ Anything _ .” Geralt’s gravelly voice sounded with anguish, but Jaskier wouldn't budge. Even if his heart sped up at the sheer proximity of the man it beat for, he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to forgive, but he was afraid he wouldn’t live through another heartbreak; and Geralt was bound to hurt him again. 

Jaskier racked his brain for ideas on how to successfully make Geralt run and never look back in his direction, for both of their sakes. He observed Geralt’s pose, on his knees, with hands to his sides, and wished he was kneeling for a whole other reason than apology and regret. Jaskier’s cheeks flared with heat and his body responded to the ultimate idea of how to push Geralt away.

“Oh really? Prove it.” Hands shaking just slightly, Jaskier unbuttoned the front of his breeches. Geralt’s eyes widened, and the astonishment painted on his face would have been comical if Jaskier wasn’t shaking inside his own body from the horror of what he was about to do, while at the same time finally showing Geralt his well-hidden desires. 

Jaskier’s hands stopped, holding the flaps of his breeches together, waiting for Geralt to flee, call him names, hit him… do any of the things he’d done to him in the past. 

Instead, however, Geralt looked up again with determination painted on his well-chiseled features. 

Jaskier panicked, but tried to keep a neutral expression on his face.  _ Hold it together, Julian, this is the only way to drive him away for good. _

He made a high squeak at the back of his throat when Geralt placed his hands high on Jaskier’s thighs.  _ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck… _

“ _ Anything _ ,” Geralt repeated and the glint in his eyes changed into something beyond the need of atonement, something more intense than affection. Jaskier had seen Geralt’s affection directed at him before, but this was more, a lot more… It was lust. Could it be possible? 

_ Here goes nothing, _ Jaskier thought and parted his breeches, letting his already semi-hard cock spring out. 

He watched Geralt’s breathing pick up, his lips part before he licked the bottom one. His hands drifted up, almost to Jaskier’s hips as he neared closer. The only thing Jaskier could hear was the loud thudding in his ears, and it took him a moment to realise it was the sound of his heart.

“Enough!” Jaskier yelped, staggering away. He stuffed his cock back in, and buttoned his breeches hurriedly. “I forgive you. You proved your sincerity. You may go now!” he yelled, turning his back to Geralt, unable to look at him. He knew however, that he would remember the look on Geralt’s face from moments before for the rest of his life. That couldn’t have been lust, but he would imagine it so in the dead of the night when his hand would wander under the covers. 

“Jaskier!” The shuffling sound suggested Geralt stood up and closed in the distance between them. 

Jaskier felt Geralt’s presence at his back and he wanted to lean into it. He wanted for Geralt to envelop him in his arms and hold him close, as a friend would… or a lover. Geralt was neither. 

“I said, you’re forgiven. We’re done here,” he said with resignation.

“Wait. Did you mean it?” Geralt’s gravelly voice was full of disbelief.

“Yes. I meant it. You are forgiven. Your witcher hearing is not deceiving you. Now, leave.” Jaskier kept his voice level, but it still broke at the last word.

“Look at me, damn you!” Geralt spun Jaskier around with a hard grip on his arms, clearly irked. 

Jaskier pursed his lips, and looked at Geralt from under lowered lashes, anger, and residual resentment still lingering in him. 

“I can’t believe you were ready to suck my cock to say you’re sorry. I don’t want a pity fuck. Go away,” Jaskier spat back, not breaking his resolve, even if his throat constricted with anguish. 

“I wanted to do it, I still do,” Geralt blurted out in a matter-of-fact voice. Immediately, his eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what had just come out of his mouth. His hands loosened the grip on Jaskier’s arms, until he folded them across his chest. 

“Did you hit your head? Fall off Roach and was dragged for miles? Or maybe-”

“No!” Geralt interrupted, huffing like an exasperated ox, then let out a foul curse at the heavens before focusing back on Jaskier. “Be serious! I need to know...did you really want me to…” He motioned between them in lieu of explanation, clearly at a loss for words. Obviously,  _ now _ he struggled to express himself, while he had been full of interesting things to say back on that wretched mountain. 

“Did I really want your full, gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock?” Jaskier scoffed in disbelief.  _ This was not happening.  _

Geralt nodded, swallowing visibly, waiting for Jaskier’s response. 

“Are you seriously asking me that? You’re impossible!” Jaskier’s voice rose in pitch as his calm demeanor went to shit and he flailed his arms in the air. “I followed you to the ends of the world. I sang ballads about your sorry arse, and rubbed chamomile on it. I sought your warmth at night in the woods…” He pointed an accusatory finger at Geralt’s chest. “And you dare ask if I want your mouth on my cock?” 

Geralt let his shoulders rise and fall in the most annoying, pitiful shrug Jaskier had ever seen in his life. _ The audacity! _

“I can’t believe this…”

“Answer me,” Geralt asked, calmly this time, but that didn’t cool down Jaskier’s incoming outburst.

“Yes, damn it! I want your mouth, your hands, your whole body on me. Always have, you blind, emotionally constipated ox!” Jaskier burst out, his chest heaving, his fists at his sides. He was tired of this charade. He was tired of being hurt and humiliated.

“I…” Geralt frowned and staggered back, sitting on the side of the hill, looking toward the town in the distance. “I didn’t know… why didn’t I know?”

“Cause you’re an idiot.”

“Right.” Geralt rumbled. 

Jaskier glared, huffed, then put his hands on his hips. “Of course I am,” he mumbled under his breath but Geralt and his witcher hearing picked it up anyway, because he levelled an exasperated stare on him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked with a confused note in his voice. 

“Tell you what? It was obvious to everyone around us. It was safe to assume you knew as well, or at least suspected. Since you never showed any interest, I left you be in that regard.”  _ Hid my attraction and sought release elsewhere.  _

“But you and all the women…”

“Well, not only women. But men don’t gossip that much, so you just don’t hear  _ those _ bedroom stories.”

“Oh…”

“Now you know, off you go.”

“Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Because I don’t want hope where there is none. I don’t want to open my heart again and have you tear it out and stomp all over it. Been there, done that. No, thanks. I’m not that kind of a masochist.” Jaskier crossed his arms, looming over the sitting man.

Geralt frowned, seemed to mull the words over. He looked up again, opened his mouth and closed it, letting out only a growled “Hmmm.”

Moments passed. Jaskier cocked his hip, waiting for Geralt to finish what looked like intense thinking. 

“I’ll let you sit alone and brood, it’s what you’re good at.” Jaskier picked up his lute and descended the hill, heading to the inn he already had a room at for the night. Leaving Geralt behind was the wisest choice, but he was already hurting at the prospect of never seeing his witcher again, never sharing a meal, never talking for hours until daylight… never feeling Geralt’s heavy arm wrapped over him in the darkness of night. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sun had set and Geralt was still sitting on a hill, mulling over what Jaskier had told him, analysing their time together since the moment they’d met. It was quiet around him, bar the soft whoosh of the tree leaves on the wind, while in his head there was a commotion of epic proportions.

True, the ballads were mostly about him but that’s why Jaskier had followed him in the first place; he’d needed material for lyrics, so by default Geralt played a big part in them. However, Jaskier didn’t have to praise his morality and prowess in them. He didn’t have to sing to him when they’d been alone on the road, or play soft melodies on his lute when Geralt couldn’t sleep, yet he did. 

“Fuck,” he spat, shaking his head at his own blind stupidity. 

Apart from his fellow witcher brothers, he had never had a friend with whom he was comfortable to be around, let alone ask for help. Despite that, he hadn’t thought twice when he’d asked Jaskier to apply chamomile on his wounds, even if it meant touching places that he usually kept covered. That was one of the first indications that his attitude was different towards the bard. Alas, he’d chosen to pay no heed to it. Even the chain of events that had led to meeting Yennefer had been propelled into being due to him trying to save Jaskier from the djin magic. 

He rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang, as he could feel a pounding headache building in it. 

When on the road, Geralt had quickly noticed that Jaskier was unable to thermoregulate the way witchers could, which resulted in him being permanently cold at night. That made his snuggling up to Geralt perfectly logical as sharing body heat was the most basic of survival techniques known to man. Geralt had thought nothing of it then, and if he might have enjoyed the physical proximity a bit more than was requested of him, then that had been just basic instinct and the need for human touch. He would wrap his arms around his bard at night to give him as much heat as Jaskier needed to sleep soundly, but in the morning he needed to get up early and relieve his throbbing need. He had told himself for the longest time that it was only because it had been morning, and not because he’d spent the night pressed to the lean body that fit next to his so perfectly. He had been fooling himself for a long time, before he’d realised how wrong he’d been

He’d always been ashamed of Jaskier finding out that his physical proximity to Geralt had clear consequences. He feared being laughed at, and rejected,  even if he was aware of the enormous capacity for empathy that Jaskier possessed. Geralt had craved Jaskier’s body for a lot longer than he dared to admit to himself, but there’d never been an opportune moment to ask how Jaskier felt about that concept. Or maybe, he’d just never had the words, let alone the courage to utter such questions aloud. 

Desperately, he’d tried to balance his intense affection towards the bard and stuff his feelings for him into a neat box labelled “friendship”. It had been a hard task but Geralt had honed this ability to perfection. He’d learned to disguise the dark pit of anger that brewed in him whenever he’d seen Jaskier romancing someone, and turned it into off-handed remarks packed with disdain. Meanwhile, inside he’d felt as if he’d been pierced by an arrow. 

After all, he was a mutant, an abomination people either feared or wanted something from. He had a looming feeling that even the women he’d slept with, had done it for the thrill and bragging rights of bedding a savage, brutal witcher.

Then there was the mystery that was the exuberant Jaskier, with his smiles, praises, but also many secrets. He had never pushed Geralt away, yet not asked for anything but simple protection when in trouble, the likes of which Geralt would have granted anyone deserving in his presence. 

All the jealousy and confusion faded when at the end of the day, it had always been Geralt’s name Jaskier whispered in a soft tone as he drifted off to sleep. It was Geralt who’d been the recipient of the sleepy look Jaskier had given him in the morning, it was Geralt’s name that had been the first one he yelled when in trouble. 

Geralt had never taken those actions as signs of anything more than friendly affection, he knew better than to mistake that for an invitation to spend the night doing more than sleeping side by side. He hadn’t wanted Jaskier to think him soft or sappy but each time those lovely blue eyes, full of tenderness, had landed on him, he’d wished he could reciprocate the look without Jaskier thinking less of him.

He’d been a young witcher once, full of ideals and expectations; enjoying the wind sweeping through his hair as he’d ridden his horse, proud of his footwork when handling his sword. Abandoned by his mother, yet trained by Vesemir who’d become like a father to him, he’d gained enough confidence to reach for what he thought could be his, like happiness.

He’d felt free to enjoy the company of anyone who would have him. He’d wondered about being with a man many a time, but only when he’d seen a tall and lean stableboy did he feel that pang of lust that had pushed him to approach the man. He had thick blonde hair that was swept back, and a stubble that would feel great scratching Geralt’s inner thighs. 

Quickly after approaching him, Geralt had been led to a stable and kissed within an inch of his life as straws of hay dug into his back through the linen shirt. Geralt had wanted the act to be slow, he’d wanted to touch and savour every moment, but the man laughed in his face. “I thought you were a witcher. If I wanted a loverboy, I wouldn’t have dragged you here. Now show me how strong and rough you are or move along.” Angered at the jibe, Geralt had done as asked, partly because he’d wanted to prove to the man what he was capable of, partly because he’d been ashamed of his softness. His brothers surely would laugh at him too, or worse, Lambert would call him a romantic…

All the other encounters with men from then on had been fast, rough and meaningless. Then again, his encounters with women didn’t differ greatly, except some women actually enjoyed him being an attentive lover. 

For decades, he’d been wanted for his skills or his honed physique, never for his company alone. Not until he’d met a certain flamboyant bard.

Jaskier had barged into his life unannounced, and the blinding sunshine of his presence must have dimmed Geralt’s wits enough to make him unable to see the pure affection Jaskier showcased towards him on every occasion. 

Jaskier had always been friendly to everyone, but upon further analysis, Geralt had to admit that the bard had been right; he had shown more of it to Geralt than to anyone else. There’d been more happiness in Geralt’s life since he’d met Jaskier than ever before and the fact that Jaskier’s attention was focused so much on him, played a big role in it. He’d finally felt appreciated, needed, maybe even cherished.

They’d been through a lot together and at the end of every adventure, Jaskier had been the only one who remained by his side. Even if not clearly stating his feelings, Jaskier had been calming him, supporting him, encouraging him… oh…

Geralt recalled their conversation at the mountain. He’d been sitting on a rock, looking at the breathtaking views of mountains covered in greenery, while his head had been full of images of Borch’s last moments. He had thought him dead then, his mutant strength amounting to nothing, if he’d been unable to save the old man and his two warrior companions. Of all the people travelling with them then, it had been Jaskier who had come to console him.

_ “You did your best. There’s nothing else you could have done.” _

Then he had the audacity to doubt his worthiness as a travel companion, after which he’d indeed made a clear offer, Geralt had been too dumb to decypher.

_ “We could head to the coast, get away for a while… Life is too short, do what pleases you while you can.” _

Jaskier’s words echoed in his head, making him feel like a complete fool for not understanding the meaning of the words. How could he have been so blind not to see what had been before his eyes all along? After the conversation had ended, he’d gone looking for any scrap of a relationship, while Jaskier had been by his side and offering it indirectly, with every smile, every semi-casual touch, every song. 

Sure, Yennefer had greeted him in her bed, but she’d never truly wanted him; they were not compatible outside of crumpled sheets. Yennefer’s words the day after had hurt him, but in retrospect, he could see that the cruel words he’d spat at Jaskier moments after, had been much worse. Finally, he was getting closer to understanding that Jaskier had the right to be as mad at him as he currently was. 

_ “Because I don’t want hope where there is none. I don’t want to open my heart again and have you tear it out and stomp all over it.”  _

Jaskier’s words from just hours before indicated that Geralt’s outburst on the mountain had hurt him deeply. The words had meant to do just that, but Geralt hadn't anticipated that Jaskier cared about him enough to be so hurt.

Straightening his back, he felt resolve fill his body. He had to attempt to fix what he’d broken. He had no idea how, but finally talking about their issues, their friendship and the physical attraction on top of them seemed like the wisest choice.

Geralt didn’t know if he could belong in bed with Jaskier, but he desperately wanted to try if Jaskier would even have him as a friend again. If not now, then in a month, a year, or a decade. Time mattered not, he was willing to wait. He would wait for forgiveness he didn’t truly deserve, because his hunt for happiness resumed anew. 

With determination, he marched down the hill, then from inn to inn, enquiring about Jaskier. His mind was so preoccupied with the image of Jaskier’s face as he looked down at him hours before, he almost asked about a bard with blue eyes and a beautiful smile. However, the name alone was enough for anyone to know who he was looking for. 

In no time, he was pointed to an inn where Jaskier had retired for the night. His first thought was to barge into Jaskier’s room and demand an audience. Maybe they could talk, have a drink, maybe they could… Then again, if Jaskier needed to be away from him to think things over as well, then he had the right to that. 

“Do you have any parchment and paper?” Geralt asked the innkeeper, instead.

“Aye. Pay for yer room and I’ll get ye a whole sheet,” the innkeeper snarled, eyeing him suspiciously before he spat on the floorboards of his own establishment. 

“Fine,” Geralt reached for his purse and tossed a few coins on the counter. 

Within moments, he was staring at a blank piece of paper, his quill-filled hand hovering over it with indecision.

_ I will travel east by morn, come with me. G. _

He folded the letter neatly and asked the innkeeper to hand it to Jaskier with his breakfast or when he left his room, whichever would be first. 

After retiring to his room, he struggled to fall asleep. Tossing and turning, he finally imagined Jaskier agreeing to his offer to travel alongside him again as they worked to resolve all their issues along the way. That comforting thought let him finally drift off to sleep.

Geralt woke up a bit after sunrise, immediately threw clothes on his back and asked the innkeeper if the letter had been delivered. 

“Yes,” the innkeeper said in an off-handed tone, sizing Geralt’s battered clothes with a judging stare. “He read it, tore it up and left west an hour ago.”

Geralt frowned, and with growl, moved to gather his belongings quickly. Jaskier couldn’t have gone far and Geralt was determined not to let him go without giving Geralt a chance to explain, this time truly saying what he felt. If only Jaskier would let him try to rebuild their friendship, he could be at peace. Even if Jaskier ultimately decided he wouldn’t want to travel with him, Geralt couldn't go on knowing Jaskier hated him.

Fueled by resolve, Geralt dug his heels into Roach and galloped to the next town, the rising sun warming his back as the wind swept his hair back.


	3. Bad timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds Jaskier brooding in a tavern, and learns that actually saying the apology out loud is harder than he'd thought.

All talk ceased in the tavern when Geralt pushed the door open, and he immediately knew Jaskier must have graced this place with his presence before him. 

“Oi! It’s the white-haired witcher!” a bulky, red-bearded fellow yelled, lifting a large, clay mug. “What did you do? The poet refused to sing his best ballads, the ones about the White Wolf.” He motioned at Geralt with the mug, sloshing his beer onto the wooden table as well as his breeches. A chorus of questions and complaints filled the room, but Geralt’s acute hearing picked up Jaskier’s protest from somewhere in the tavern:

“Those are not my best ballads!” he yelled, and Geralt followed the sound, his senses focused on one person only. 

All eyes were still on Geralt, but he ignored the initial question. He didn’t owe explanations to anyone, except Jaskier. If only he was willing to listen, Geralt would try to explain his point of view on the whole mess that was of his own making. 

Inhaling the scents in the room, he grimaced, as the stench of sweaty bodies, food, and beer masked even Jaskier’s familiar scent. His eyes scanned the room, finally landing on the bard sitting in a dark corner.  _ Oh, how times have changed _ , Geralt thought, and watched Jaskier take a healthy sip of whatever was in his cup. He’d just finished an eggs and sausage breakfast by the look of his plate, and was gearing to get up. 

Geralt’s heart beat faster, his fear of rejection growing stronger with every step.  _ Was that what Jaskier had to have overcome to approach him all those years ago? Or had he been in the habit of approaching men deemed ‘scary looking’ on a regular basis?  _ Geralt wished he had the easy suave Jaskier had had that day, so he could woo him with a witty remark and a funny joke. 

He should have been nicer to him then, even after Jaskier had mentioned the Blaviken moniker. If only he’d known how the blue-eyed bard would change his life for the better, maybe he would have. Geralt squared his shoulders and walked towards the man who deserved a lot more than Geralt had ever given him.

“Now I understand how someone constantly following you can truly be annoying,” Jaskier  quipped in a tone colder than a winter night at Kaer Morhen. 

“You left in the other direction,” Geralt said in an accusatory tone, even if he was perfectly aware that he deserved the remark. It seemed he was so used to his default demeanor, he couldn’t help coming across as gruff. For a long moment, he stood in place, unable to decide what to do with his hands, unable to utter another word. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say on his way, but now all the words seemed to have left his brain, never to be seen again. He wanted to grab Jaskier and embrace him, he wanted to shake some sense into his friend, so he could see that Geralt was sorry, that he was aware of the wrongs he’d done. 

With turmoil tearing him apart from the inside, his eyes were focused on Jaskier’s soft-looking brown hair, willing his friend to look at him.

“No, I just chose not to follow you.” Jaskier finally looked up, not moving on the wooden bench he was sitting on, not making space for Geralt to sit next to him. It stung, how the ever-welcoming bard treated Geralt like an unwanted animal. 

“Why?” Geralt asked stupidly. He’d apologized and asked Jaskier to travel with him again, but that had been hardly enough to make up for what he had done. Even if it was more than he’d done when they’d first met, neither of them were the same people anymore. 

“I already told you why. I can find ballad material on my own. I won’t  _ burden  _ you any more. Fate has taken me off your hands, so now you have everything you wanted,” he said in a flat tone. His demeanor was calm but the look on his face was so unlike Jaskier, Geralt was taken aback. Saddened eyes belied his expression of passive indifference, and Geralt didn’t know which one hurt him more.

He now understood the enormity of his previous actions, and yet was still unsure how to amend them. His hand itched to reach over and brush a strand of fringe from Jaskier’s forehead, but he kept it curled at his side. Only now, when what he’d assumed his prerogative of casually touching Jaskier had been taken away, did he notice how much he craved it.

He needed to stop taking Jaskier for granted and stop seeing their friendship as it had been before. The beginning of a new chapter for them was being written now, and a lot could depend on how he played his apology.

Determined, Geralt squeezed himself onto the small space left on the bench. It made one of his arse cheeks float in the air, and the other one touched Jaskier. The awkward position made him feel idiotic, but let him talk to Jaskier without looming over him. 

“Let me explain,” he started, but Jaskier raised a hand to stop him.

“I know you, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice was softer this time. His eyes were dry but full of pain and determination as he met Geralt’s gaze. “I know you used to care about me, at least a little. You’ve saved my life many times to prove it. And you know that the one thing you can do to hurt me is to tell me I’m a burden to you. You said that on purpose and it’s been a long time coming.” Jaskier’s voice broke just slightly, but enough for Geralt to hear it. He swallowed, and licked his bottom lip in a way that Grealt had always found adorable, but now seemed like a harbinger of a goodbye. 

“I’ve accompanied you for years, so you getting sick of my company was bound to happen. Now, for the sake of our friendship, let it go, Geralt. I’ll find a way to deal with this and so will you. Don’t make it worse by offering empty promises.” The soft, hurt and resigned tone shot through Geralt more than the words themselves had. “If we ever meet again, I won’t run from you, but I won’t chase you either.” 

There was finality in Jaskier’s tone and it made Geralt unable to speak, and barely able to breathe. He refused to acknowledge it, and was set to make it right. 

Jaskier had seen through him, of course he had. After the dangerous expedition into the mountains, Geralt had realised that there might come a day when he would be unable to protect Jaskier from the dangers of a life on the road, of a life next to a witcher. 

Now, however, he regretted his words. He was being selfish and wanted Jaskier to stay with him still, especially now after he’d found out that Jaskier also saw him as more than a friend, just as Geralt had for a long while. Except now, Jaskier didn’t want him anymore. What a fool Geralt had been to hurt the only person who’d actually stood by him with nothing to gain for all those years. 

Geralt massaged his chest that hurt as if Roach had danced on it all night. The look in Jaskier’s eyes made him realise that anger and disdain was a lot easier to handle than disappointment. He’d rather Jaskier threw the plate at him, or called him names. Those were the kind of reactions Geralt was used to. Then, after a drink or two, they would just go back to how it had always been. What Jaskier had just said was not what Geralt had imagined when rehearsing his apology. 

He looked down to Jaskier’s skilled, long-fingered hand resting on the table and watched his own hand reach for it. As if stung, Jaskier moved his hand away and out of reach. 

The lump in Geralt’s throat at yet another rejection he rightfully deserved made it hard to utter a sound, but he was aware of the precious time with Jaskier running out. He wouldn’t wait forever on Geralt, he’d already proven that. Gathering his thoughts to say what had been due for a long time, he watched Jaskier put money on the table to pay for his food. The panic that Jaskier was truly done with the conversation hit him, and he forced himself to formulate his thoughts into words faster.

“Jaskier-”

“Are ye a witcher?” came a male voice to Geralt’s left, rudely interrupting him and distracting him from what he was about to say. He didn’t turn, his eyes still on Jaskier, who lingered, waiting for Geralt to finally spit out his words. Yet words couldn’t describe his regret. Geralt wanted to take Jaskier’s hand, or hug him. He needed to link them, to somehow telepathically relay his regret in order for Jaskier to truly understand.

“Hey, mister witcher,” the man spoke again, spiking annoyance in Geralt’s already emotionally overwhelmed system.

“Can’t you see that we’re busy here?” Geralt snarled through his teeth at being cut off in the worst moment possible. The young man with a thin moustache blanched, taking a step back, but being either brave or stupid, he used the moment to catch Geralt’s attention and continued talking.

“There’s a dragon stealing livestock and sometimes even people. We think it lives somewhere just outside the village. The town needs the help of a witcher. Please, sir, you have to help us!” The words filled with panic were hard to ignore, but one had to prioritize. Jaskier was a top priority, as he should have been for a long time.

“Can it wait -” he turned to point at Jaskier but he was already gone. “Fuck,” he muttered, standing up to look around. The door to the tavern swung closed and Geralt took a step towards it to follow Jaskier.

“I beg of you, witcher, on my knees if I have to,” the man pleaded, blocking Geralt’s path. 

A foul curse played on the tip of Geralt’s tongue, and he sighed, glaring at the man whose wide eyes were filled with fear. Using the moment, he dragged a nearby stool to sit, and proceeded to complain.

“We, the whole village I mean, spent weeks in fear before we finally saw what was killing our people and livestock. It’s a monstrous dragon! Now we know what it is, but we fear no less. We need yer help!”

Knowing fairly well how people mixed species they knew nothing about bar a few old folk tales, Geralt proceeded to question the man.

“How big was the creature? Did you see it yourself?”

“Aye, I did! With my own eyes. It wasn’t big, but deadly! It swooped from the air and snatched my sheep.” The man gesticulated wildly as he spoke.

“Did it breathe fire?”

“No…” the man answered, confused. “Do ye not believe me?”

“I do. Now tell me, on how many legs did he stand?”

“Two, why?”

“Hmmm,” Geralt grumbled, analysing the information. “How much coin do you have?” 

“We’ve been saving for a witcher and waiting for one for weeks now, we can pay, I assure ye. The whole village chipped in.” The man patted a purse strapped to his waist. 

Geralt extended his hand and a bag of coin was placed in it. He weighed it in his palm, then opened it to inspect the coin. 

“Fine,” he tossed it back to the man. “Pay me when the wyvern is dead,” he said, leaning his elbow on the table.

“A wyvern?” the man squawked in surprise.

“What you’ve seen was not a dragon. Wyverns are highly adaptable, so it’s no surprise he picked a place close to a town full of meaty sustenance.” The man blanched at the cold description, but Geralt had to know the ways of beasts in order to be able to hunt and kill them efficiently. “Now, where was it last seen and what else can you tell me?” 

Geralt listened to the tales the man weaved. One was based on his own experience but the others were retellings of other people’s. Gathering all the facts and old wive’s tales that may still prove useful, Geralt planned his strategy.

The beast was able to spit venom from afar or inject it directly through the stinger at the end of its long tail. Thankfully, he already had several vials of Golden Oriole prepared in his bags. The potion would help release enzymes that would increase his resistance to toxins in case he was stung or scratched by the wyvern. 

He wished he had slept better the night prior but his head had been full of memories of his carefree times with Jaskier and the many opportunities he had missed to tell his friend how he truly felt. The little sleep he had, however, was enough for him to be clear-headed for a fight. One had to be well-prepared to face an animal who attacked by swooping down fast from the air.

When the moustached man’s tales started to get too ridiculous to be of any use to Geralt, he slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up in a decisive move. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a beast to catch and I have no time to waste.” 

He was in a hurry not because of the wyvern, but because he needed the coin for travel as fast as possible in order for Jaskier not to get away from him again. He also knew, deep down inside, that he couldn’t leave the town without helping the people. It could be months before they saw another witcher, and many of them could fall prey to the monster in the meantime. Even knowing that, the thought of Jaskier leaving again before they got a chance to talk was gnawing on him.

A series of shrieks just outside the tavern pierced his ears and he smiled, knowing his job had just become a lot easier. The wyvern came to him, saving him the hassle of luring it out. Hopeful that he could deal with it quickly and get to Jaskier faster, he followed the sounds, rushing outside and looking up into the cloudless sky.

The batlike wings of the taloned creature cut the air, making people scatter in all directions, looking for cover. From the inner pocket of his jerkin, Geralt picked the vial with Golden Oriole and drank it until the last drop. 

“Get back!” he yelled to the people still gawking at the flying creature as if paralysed. He ran to Roach who was tied to a pole next to the tavern, neighing anxiously. Before releasing her, he unstrapped his silver sword from her side and stepped in the middle of the town’s square to catch the wyvern’s eye. 

Feet wide, he took a deep breath, feeling the potion flow in his veins as he prepared his stance for the impending attack from the airborne monster. 

Geralt balanced on the balls of his feet, eyes on the creature, anticipating the arch of its swoop. With a sword in his right hand, he made an Aard sign with his left, and thrust the energy at the wyvern flying his way.

The beast's wings flapped in distress, the moment Geralt’s magic hit it. It swirled in the air before its massive body fell onto the ground with a thud just several feet away from Geralt. A curious child still standing in the square was almost hit by the massive tail. Thankfully, a shrieking mother dragged the boy to safety just in time. 

Through the dust that arose at the impact, Geralt could see the wyvern struggling to get to its feet. 

Geralt wished for a Grapeshot at hand to incapacitate the beast even faster. Alas, he neither had it nor would it be advisable to use such a bomb in an area full of people. Approaching with caution, Geralt gripped the sword with both hands and waited for the dust to settle. One taloned foot laying bent at an unnatural angle was an indication that the creature’s leg broke on impact.

It screeched in pain, making everyone still too stupid to scrurry away cover their ears. Unable to stand, it lashed out with its tail, trying to reach Geralt with the stinger full of venom. 

Geralt avoided it by dodging forward and to the left, bringing himself closer, and within reach. The wyvern attacked with its tail again, but Geralt was ready. He parried the blow by holding his sword in a vertical position, then staggered back two steps, pushed away by the powerful blow. A growl of frustration left his lips and a new wave of resolve filled his veins. He regripped his sword, and with a pirouette approached to strike down the third incoming blow from the tail.

The silver of Geralt’s blade cut through the meaty tail, making the creature roar in pain, showcasing its sharp teeth. In a burst of red rain, the beast’s blood spurted on Geralt’s face and on the ground. Three long strides was all it took to reach the howling wyvern. With his last step, he pushed himself off the ground with his left foot and travelled in the air high enough to plant his sword in the middle of the wyvern’s chest. On his way down, he cut the beast through until its entrails splattered to the ground of the town’s square in a gory display. He landed gracefully, making sure to avoid the wyvern’s talons as the venom in them would still be active. 

Chest heaving, blood dripping down his face, Geralt thought of a theatrical finish Jaskier would appreciate. With a smirk on his face as he imagined Jaskier weaving rhymes about the battle, he cut off the wyvern’s head in one swift move of his silver blade. 

A wet splat coupled with a thud sounded when the massive head landed on the ground, and rolled towards the people who had dared to come closer to watch. 

A roar of shouts and claps erupted from the townsfolk, and he felt the kind of rush Jaskier must feel after a successful performance. If only Jaskier could see it. His claps would mean a thousand times more than a whole village-worth. Alas, Jaskier was on his way to find inspiration elsewhere, far from Geralt and his ungrateful ways. Geralt was usually alone in the wilderness when he hunted the monster he was paid to kill. Today was an exception, and if only Jaskier had stayed, he could have witnessed it. 

As the claps faded, Geralt walked away from his battlefield and through the crowd, which was more fascinated by the dead creature than the man who had killed it.

A sharp pain stung his calf, making him look down. There was a scratch he must have gotten sometime in the middle of the fight. With adrenaline coursing through him and the potions he took, he never noticed small injuries such as this one. By the length and depth of it, he could tell that it was from the talons of the creature’s foot. Thankfully, it was small enough for Golden Oriole to neutralize the effects of the poison. He rolled his head and then his shoulders, checking for serious injuries. He felt no significant damage, beyond scratches and bruises that didn’t need tending.

His heartbeat slowing to his regular, lazy rhythm, he waved his hand to the man with whom he’d been talking in the tavern. A heavy coin purse flew his way and he pinned it to his belt before he took the wyvern’s unbroken foot to drag the corpse to the side.

“Does anyone have a use for it?” he asked the gathered crowd.

“How much do you want?” a middle aged man in a white, bloodstained apron asked. 

“The beast is yours for the cost of cleanup,” Geralt replied, not caring, nor having use for it.

“Can I have its talons?” an older woman asked, as she pushed her way through the gawkers. “I could use the venom for potions.”

“Deal with each other. The wyvern belongs to the town now.” Geralt waved a hand indicating his part of the business was done. 

A commotion ensued around the creature. Everyone from old to young wanted to take a look and have a souvenir for home. 

Geralt left them to dispose of the beast however they saw fit and whistled for Roach. She approached within a few moments. Like the smart horse she was, she’d been hiding from a safe distance, but close enough to come if Geralt needed her.

“That’s my girl.” Geralt stroked the side of her neck before he mounted her in one swift move. 

“Hey, miss!” he yelled seeing the barmaid from the tavern. 

“Yes, mister witcher?” she asked, her big brown eyes full of wonder as she took in his bloody attire. The batting of her lashes wouldn't get her what her sharp scent suggested she wanted from him. “I need to find someone.” Geralt watched as her face fell, but he was not in the mood to fulfill anyone's bedroom wishes. 

It was like that in every town. When he arrived, everyone hated him, sometimes even threw rocks or potatoes at him. Then once he was leaving, at least some of them looked at him in a new, positive light. True, most of them wanted just to acquire bragging rights that a night with a witcher would bring, but it was better than nothing. Depending on his mood, sometimes he took them up on the offer, sometimes not. 

Now, however, he had only one person in mind.

“Did you see which way the bard went?” he continued. “The one who-”

“Yes! The famous poet Jaskier!” She blushed saying his name, and Jaskier wasn’t even around. 

“That’s the one.”

“He headed that way.” She pointed with her finger smudged with soot.

“Thank you,” Geralt inclined his head.

“Thank you, mister witcher!” she called after him, but he was already on his way towards Jaskier. Resolve to find his bard coursed through him as he urged Roach to a gallop. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comments! 
> 
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